


Who Do I Think I Am?

by Gorned



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Cablepool - Freeform, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Identity Issues, Identity Reveal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 16:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15343698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorned/pseuds/Gorned
Summary: Nathan takes a few steadying breaths and looks away, looks down. His jaw clenches. There's nothing wrong with him. There is absolutely nothing wrong and if he just leaves the issue, the issue will go away. There are more important things to focus on. Making sure the world doesn't shit itself, prevent a future that carried no hope. There are bigger things to be concerned about. Fuck Nathan's problem. It wasn't even a problem. Nothing bad had happened. He was sure nothing bad ever would. He'd gotten this far and he could keep going.Everything was fine.---Nathan doesn't know what his body is doing while his mind's away.





	Who Do I Think I Am?

He loses days, sometimes. 

Nathan blacks out, wakes up in a place where he doesn’t remember going to sleep. At the minimum, he’ll lose a couple of hours. No less than two. At most, he’s lost an entire week. To what? He’s not sure. He’s too afraid to examine it further. 

It’s only been a recent development in the last five months. He remembers when it started. Grocery shopping with Wade, comparing two different mangoes in his hands and trying to decide if he should just take one or both. Did they need mangoes? They were a bitch to eat and always made a sticky mess that he hated cleaning out of the plates and wires of his left hand. He could always put a glove on, but there were other fruits in existence that were just as tasty and less of a bitch to consume. Maybe he could get Wade to cut them? 

Wade had been talking. Talking about the benefits of being able to stream to the TV from their phones if only they would bite the bullet and upgrade to sleek smartphones instead of using their ancient, plastic flip phones. He remembers thinking, what the fuck was the point of a burner if it wasn’t disposable and value-less and then his world had just dissolved into black. Darkening around the corners of his vision until there was nothing left but darkness. 

He doesn’t know where his mind went. He thinks he remembers floating in the abyss. Weightless. No worries, no concerns. He’d closed his eyes, a bone-deep weariness making him think it was okay to sleep for a while and dream of nothing. He thinks distantly of warmth, of the feel of Wade’s soft lips on his own. Laughing because he’d dragged his fingers over that little place just above the jut of Wade’s hips where he was surprisingly ticklish. Feather-light touch just to make Wade squirm underneath him. 

Nathan’s eyes snap open. He’s disoriented, foggy. He feels like his body is ten times heavier than he’s used to it being, dragging him down. He feels the bed beneath him and wonders if he could just sink right through the mattress, through the floor, and be swallowed whole. Go back to that quiet place made of blackness and echoes and examine it further. 

He remembers the darkness and how comforting it had felt. It couldn’t have been a nightmare. His nightmares are always full of all-consuming fire that never burns and the rat-tat-tat-tat of guns. Bullets whizzing past, bullets finding their marks and the dull sound they make when they bury themselves into tender flesh and the eerily soft whisper of a soul leaving a body. 

He turns his head and sees Wade. Shirt rucked up to his chest, mouth open as he snores. He has one leg thrown over Nathan’s thighs and he’s dangerously close to falling off the bed and onto the floor. Nathan wonders if the mattress and oblivion would swallow Wade, too. Maybe spit him back out once it learned that he had a motor mouth that would never run out of gas. 

Awake and wanting to shake off the heavy feeling, Nate shifts. He carefully pulls Wade onto the bed proper, rolls down his shirt. He covers Wade with the blankets, tucks him in with gentle hands, and slips away into the dim of the living room. 

No moon tonight, no stars. 

Nathan sits on the couch and lets his head fall back. He stares at the ceiling and tries to wrack his own mind. 

Where had he gone? 

\-- 

The trend continues and Nathan doesn't say anything about it. He lives his life like there's nothing wrong in the hopes that if he just keeps going, the problem will fade away. It's uncharacteristic of him, to ignore something like this. It could be any number of things that would be due cause for alarm, but he suppresses the urge to talk about it. He doesn't want to. He's stronger than that and he can handle it on his own. 

Every time he's lot a stretch of days, it's almost blissful. The dark place is so inviting. It's womb-like in the way that it cradles him, lulls him into a sense of security. There is no impending danger in this place. There are no worries, no threats. It's Nathan and the dark and whatever he wants to think about. Sometimes if he concentrates hard enough he can hear Hope and Aliyah. Like their voices are on a tinny loop from his memories. The only thing that he doesn't like about this state of rest is that Wade isn't there. He finds himself missing the babble, missing the smirks and endless amount of innuendos that sometimes don't even make a lick of sense. He misses the neediness of the way that Wade curls into him, scarred hands slipping up his shirt to feel at skin and techno-organic mesh. 

Wade is someone that Nate had never thought he'd come to care for so deeply. They click on every level. Emotionally, physically. Wade's mutation makes it impossible for Nate to read his mind but he finds that he never needs to. He can read Wade's body. He can see the signs of a meltdown from ten miles away and see how the littlest touches or comments can ground him and make tension ooze off of his very bones. He can read Wade like an open book with large print and it's a wonder to him that they could be close enough for him to do that. He has a basic understanding of people in general but Wade... He has a doctorate in understanding Wade Winston Wilson. 

It's his feelings for Wade that usually pull him out of the dark. All he needs is the sound of a laugh to follow, pulling on it like a rope cast over the side of a boat. He pulls and pulls and when he opens up his eyes, he always takes a big gasp of air. Like he'd been willingly drowning. Face down in quicksand. 

He wakes up in bed. On the couch. In the shower. Naked or fully clothed. One time he'd woken up sitting next to Neena in a plane, cradling his gun in his arms. Post successful mission, blood still drying on his boots. 

His gaze had slid across the space to Wade. Wade who he never sat next to during these because it distracted the merc, made him want to glue himself to Nate's side and jabber endlessly instead of focusing on killing bad guys. He watches the mask of the Deadpool persona and though the whites of it are looking forward, he knows Wade is watching him in his peripheral. He can feel those hazel eyes boring into his own from behind the mesh, trying to read and decipher his micro-expressions. Wade can read him just as easily as he can read Wade. It's a double-edged sword. Usually Nate doesn't mind. Now, he thinks he does. 

Does Wade know? Does he have suspicions? Does he know that Nathan lets his body drive on auto-pilot while his mind goes somewhere else to rest? 

What had his body done while his mind had been sleeping? 

Nathan takes a few steadying breaths and looks away, looks down. His jaw clenches. There's nothing wrong with him. There is absolutely nothing wrong and if he just leaves the issue, the issue will go away. There are more important things to focus on. Making sure the world doesn't shit itself, prevent a future that carried no hope. There are bigger things to be concerned about. Fuck Nathan's problem. It wasn't even a problem. Nothing bad had happened. He was sure nothing bad ever would. He'd gotten this far and he could keep going. 

Everything was fine. 

\-- 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." 

It's impossibly hot between them. Hot room, hot bodies, hot night. Wade is stretched out underneath him, long and languid and beautiful in all of his scarred glory. His face twists with pleasure as Nate fucks into him relentlessly. His hands are braced on either side of Wade's head, fingers curling into the sheets. Wade's long legs are bracketing his hips, his hands up and gripping the pillow under his neck tight enough to make his knuckles go white. 

Nate doesn't remember getting to this point. It feels good, really good, and he appreciates it, but he'd woken up like this. It's the first time. He wasn't aware that his body carried out his more primal urges like this when he was taking his mental siestas. Of course Wade would let him. Would like it. Would want it. 

Sex was sex was sex. 

Nate buries himself deep and grinds his hips, little hitches of movement that have Wade mewling in pleasure, babbling a string of curses and nonsense encouragement. It's good, really good. Sweat slides down from Nate's hairline, down the side of his face. He can feel it pooling between their bellies. Every point of contact feels slick, feels like sin. Wade's skin is so goddamn soft, like silk spun from the gods and stretched over his muscles. 

The edges of his vision start to darken and he finds that he doesn't want to go. He can't leave Wade like this, on the precipice. He doesn't want to go. 

Nate can hear screeching, like the breaks of a runaway train. Like a car crash. He gasps. 

Wade gasps, too, but for a completely different reason. 

His vision blacks and he finds himself in the dark place. It's warm, but not hot like their room. Not hot like Wade's body or the passion or the want that Nate feels curling in his belly. He rallies against the walls that aren't there as they close in on him. Vacuum sealed. Locked up tight. 

It's not a cradling feeling anymore. It's oppressive darkness, it's a rip tide pulling his head under the waves and he can't fight the current to get back up. He can't break the surface. It's restraint on every part of him, holding tight and not giving any kind of lee-way. 

Nathan wants to scream but his voice is gone. He wants to thrash but he has no body. 

The warmth is starting to seep away, leeched by Nate's dread. He doesn't want to be here anymore. It's not fine, it's not fine. There's something inherently wrong and now that he wants to go back, he finds that he can't. There is no rope to pull on. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. 

All he can taste is metal in his mouth. It's like biting on pennies. Dirty with a tang of copper, like being punched in the face. It's like a nosebleed, seeping down the back of his throat. Somebody's holding his head back, forcing him to swallow all that red. 

And then suddenly, he can breathe clearly. 

Nathan opens his eyes and he's blinded by the brightness of overhead lights. His body feels sore, feels wrecked. He feels like every single muscle has been shredded apart and hastily stitched back together with a rusty needle. He groans and tries to sit up, but a hand on his chest keeps him down. 

"Stop." 

It's Wade. 

Deadpool leans over him and Nate can't see his expression. It's behind the unreadable leather of the mask, the white mesh. 

"Let me up." Nate says but it's like speaking through cotton. His jaw aches, even his fucking teeth hurt. 

"Do we have the pleasure of speaking to Nathan or Stryfe?" 

Another voice. Nate turns his head to lock eyes with Professor Charles Xavier himself. Charles has his fingers pressed together, steepled and resting lightly against his lips. He's watching Nathan with an inscrutable expression, brow furrowed. He looks like he's concentrating on something else mentally. 

Nathan retreats into his own mental facilities and feels the calm, cool touch of the Professor's mind. It's like a doctor wearing a glove. Clinical, professional. He's got a strong wall in place in Nathan's mind, an impromptu dam. He's holding something back. What is it? 

Why? 

"Nathan," he answers. Nathan tries to sit up again but it's not Wade that holds him down this time. There are thick leather bands over his chest, trapping his arms and legs. He's on a metal table in a room with silver walls. He has the vague sense that he might be under ground because there are no outside sounds. No windows. The air feels recycled. Is this the Mansion? How had they gotten here? 

"What's going on? What happened? Who is Stryfe?" 

"You don't know," The Professor murmurs, watching Nate very carefully. "Stryfe is the name that your techno-organic virus has given itself, Nathan. Are you aware that it has been taking control of your body?" 

Nate feels his blood run cold. It's like ice in his veins. He lays on the table and stops trying to strain against the straps holding him down. The virus. The fucking goddamned techno-organic virus. He should have known. The entire point of it was consume his organic tissue, to eat at it and replace it with living technology. He should have known that it would target his mind, too. Fuck. 

"No," he replies. He pauses then, "I didn't know it was the virus." 

"So you fucking knew," Wade says. His voice is tight, simmering with anger. "You knew your body was walking around without you in control and you didn't fucking say anything about it? You fucking dick. How long has this been fucking happening, huh? How long, Nate?" 

Nate wets his lips. His mouth is dry. He wishes somebody would let him have some water. 

"Over six months," he says. 

"Six fucking months?" Wade screeches in an octave that makes Nate wince. He takes a breath to lay into Nate, but he Professor holds up a hand to stop him before he can get started. 

"This complicates matters," The Professor says. Despite the dire nature of this situation, he retains his calm. He watches with dark brown eyes over those steepled fingers. Nathan feels like a butterfly, wings pinned to a board. He hates it. 

"No shit, McAvoy," Wade mumbles. "Can't you just, I dunno. Be kinky and beat the virus back into submission? Give Nate all the control back?" He waves a gloved hand over Nate's head like that will solve all of their problems. 

"I'm afraid not," the Professor replies, still watching Nate's face like he's looking for any sign that Stryfe might be making an appearance again. Nathan doesn't feel the pull of the dark place. Not yet. 

"I can take care of it," Nate says, closing his eyes and shifting to try and get as comfortable as he can on a fucking metal slab. "I didn't know what I was dealing with at first, but now I do. Can do this on my own. Lift the wall, Charles." 

Wade makes a frustrated sound and Nate can hear the squeak of leather as he clenches his hands into fists. But Wade can't do anything right now. There's no enemy to fight because the enemy lives inside Nathan's blood. 

Nathan breathes steadily through his nose, trying to think of the dark place. He hasn't ever gone there voluntarily before but he thinks he could try. He kicks at the wall that the Professor still has in place, sensing his hesitation. 

"Lift the wall, Charles," Nathan growls. 

The darkness sucks him under like a vortex. 

When Nathan opens his eyes again, he's standing face to face with himself. His clone is dressed in shining silver armor connected all the way through. He stands straight, head high with purpose. The bit of his neck that Nathan can see over his armor doesn't have the techno-organic mesh creeping up and eating away at his skin. Both of his eyes are glowing golden instead of just one. 

A silver gauntleted hand reaches out, palm up. 

"You don't have to feel pain anymore," Stryfe says, voice calm. Collected. Strong, like he knows this fight isn't one that Nathan can win. This is a battle they've been fighting since Nathan was a baby even though Stryfe hadn't been more than a series of flare ups that had Nathan wasting days, rolling around in pain. 

His eyes the outstretched hand. It's tempting. The weight of Nathan's responsibilities are heavy on his shoulders. He could give it all up, right here and now. He could stay in the dark place and rest, sleep. He wouldn't have to worry about the future, worry about saving mutants and humans from themselves. He wouldn't have to be the messiah that Mother Askani had claimed him to be the moment she saved him. 

"Pain makes me human," Nathan growls. 

With every ounce of energy and strength, Nathan runs towards Stryfe and tackles him. The sharp metal of his armor bites back, digging into Nate's skin. Unyielding as Nate straddles his counterpart and punches out again and again and again. Like trying to punch through solid sheets of steel every time his knuckles make contact. 

Stryfe surges up and pins Nathan against some invisible wall, crushing the air out of his lungs. He wraps metal fingers around Nathan's neck and squeezes. Pressing on his wind pipe, blocking off his air. He struggles, kicking and lashing out but his vision is seeping away. Going dark around the edges. He can feel the luke-warm of techno-organic metal wrapping around his wrists and ankles like snakes, tendrils curling around to trap him and keep him down. 

He thinks of Wade. How disappointed he'd be to see Nathan lose. How lonely he'd be if Nathan never came back. He thinks of the world, teetering on a delicate precipice and just waiting for the wrong kind of push to send it over a cliff and unable to be salvaged. He can't lose. 

He refuses. 

Reaching out with his mind, Nathan peels Stryfe back. The tendrils come away from his wrists. The fingers are forced away from his throat. Nathan takes a gasping breath and clenches his hands, imagining his telekinesis crushing Stryfe like an aluminum can. Pressing him back, making him smaller and smaller until there's nothing left but a tiny speck of silver that he can box up and shove away into the dark. Maybe Stryfe will find the dark place as soothing as Nathan had. 

Nathan squeezes his eyes shut and reaches out for that rope to pull himself up. He can hear Wade calling his name. He uses it as a life line. 

As the dark fades away, Wade is hovering over him. No Deadpool mask to hide his worried expression, the way his lips scrunch up to one side or the furrow in his hairless brow. There's no Professor watching. Just him and Wade in a fucking metal room. Fucking metal table hard under his aching back. 

"Priscilla?" Wade asks cautiously. 

Nate feels like he's been hit by a truck physically but mentally he feels... Good. At peace. He's sure that he hasn't completely beat back the virus but for now, it's under his control again. Reaching out with his telekinesis, he undoes the straps holding him down. The buckles clink as they fall away, leather whispers as Nate sits up. He reaches out and takes Wade's gloved hand, pressing his lips to covered knuckles. 

"Yeah. It's me," Nathan murmurs, tugging Wade close. He wraps Wade's lanky body up in his arms and sighs as he rests his cheek against his chest. Wade's hands stroke at the back of his neck, push through the greying strands of his hair. 

"Don't do that to me," Wade grumbles. "I started to lose all my hair, you fucking ass muncher. What would become of me if I didn't have my gorgeous locks? I'd lose my modeling gigs and it would be all your fucking fault. How would you even begin to live with yourself? Don't... Don't do that again. Just don't. Secrets don't make friends or whatever." 

Nate just huffs a chuckle, a soundless push of air. He hugs Wade a little bit more tightly. 

"No more secrets," Nathan agrees. "I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user garaxbatos because Buck wanted to see Nathan as the one in pain for once. I know Stryfe is a completely separate entity to Cable, but I wanted to play around with the idea that the techno-organic virus was sentient and could think for itself.
> 
> Big thanks to my personal cheerleader and clone, Madz. 
> 
> For more written Cablepool content please head to cablesummerss.tumblr.com


End file.
